The Reporter and The Software Engineer
by wafflewinchester
Summary: POST-ASYLUM: One month after coming home from Mount Massive Asylum. One month of screaming nightmares, insomnia and depression. Then the unexpected happened. An oddly familiar face had turned up. Contains spoilers for Outlast and Outlast: Whistleblower. Miles and Waylon friendship, could range to the slightest fluff depending on how you take it.
1. Chapter 1

One month after coming home from Mount Massive Asylum.

One month of screaming nightmares, insomnia and depression. Then the unexpected happened. An oddly familiar face had turned up. Waylon had told Lisa to take herself and both their sons away for a while so he could deal with it. She had understood, being the amazing woman she was, and had decided to go to her parents' residence until Waylon told her it was safe to return.

Now he had to deal with this. The man was still waiting for him out on the front porch. It had only taken a five minute conversation with Lisa and half an hour of packing to get them going. Their sons were told that daddy needed some time alone, so they would stay with mommy for a bit. They hadn't minded.

Waylon stepped out onto the porch. He studied the newcomer warily. Waylon had only glimpsed his face once, so long ago, when the horrors of his ordeal were still fresh in his mind. He had figured out that it was this man's car he had taken, it was this man that had killed Blaire.

The man was smoking. Waylon's eyes followed the gentle trail of smoke up into the sky until it dissipated. The man was wearing what he remembered - brown jacket, white shirt, blue jeans. His dark hair was tousled and his face was streaked with dirt and blood. The man was missing two fingers, his right index finger and his left ring finger. His eyes were the stormy gray color of the cigarette smoke.

"What's your name?" Waylon asked. The man exhaled slowly and spoke, his voice gravelly and quiet.

"Miles Upshur. And I know who you are. You're Waylon Park, the man who brought me to that godforsaken place."

It was a simple statement but it sounded to Waylon like an accusation. He winced, his ankle throbbing. It had never been the same since he was fallen down the lift shaft, trying to escape from-

No. Don't think about him. Recalling memories only makes it worse.

Waylon held his head in his hands, temporarily forgetting about Miles.

Eddie Gluskin. Almost every nightmare he had was about this man and the ones that did contain the groom made him scream. His screams always shocked Lisa awake, who had to desperately shake him and urge him that it wasn't real, that he was intact, that Gluskin was long gone. Every time, Waylon woke, curled in a ball, his throat aching, Lisa's wide eyes full of worry and fear. Waylon would sit on the edge of the bed, rocking slightly, while Lisa checked on their sons. Then she'd ask him about it.

The nightmare was recurring and almost always exactly the same: he was hunted down and taken to the operating room. He was tied to a table and had to endure the groom's falsely tender words leading up to the worst part. The screaming happened when the buzzsaw tore into his living skin and flesh, mutilating him and causing his vocal cords to strain until he couldn't possibly scream any louder. Then he'd wake up in a cold sweat. The next night would be exactly the same. More pain. No escape.

When Waylon returned to the present and took his hands from his face, Miles was stood in front him. Miles had stubbed his cigarette. Now that he was closer, Waylon could see there was a shadow of stubble on Miles' jaw. There were lines on his face that a twenty-odd year old man shouldn't have yet, but Waylon knew the ordeal had aged them both, mentally and physically. It had more than aged him … it had scarred him. Ruined him. Broken him …

"You're broken," Miles said suddenly, as if he had read Waylon's mind. Maybe he had. Nothing was clear anymore, not now. Waylon tensed up as Miles reached towards him. The hand, rougher than he'd expected, brushed his face. The stub of his finger was smooth, strange against Waylon's cheek.

"So long," Miles whispered, almost to himself. "So long since I've been near another person. One that was sane."

He was touching Waylon's face in an action that was not affectionate nor caring; it was simply to remember what another human felt like.

Waylon knew what he meant. He had spent so long trapped with Murkoff, unable to even talk to Lisa through the phone. Then came the hell of being committed into the asylum, even worse because he constantly was under peril of dying, of never returning to his family. Contact with Blaire, with Andrew, with Manera, with Gluskin, with other insane variants didn't count. He had needed to be near someone … real, someone who could refrain from trying to kill him. When he had returned to Lisa, Waylon had collapsed into her, drawing her into a tight embrace that had lasted a long time. She had just hugged him back, crying with relief.

Miles dropped his hand away and murmured a soft 'thank you' that Waylon barely heard. He sat back down silently and Waylon glanced at him.

"Do you want a drink? Coffee? Martini-" Waylon stopped himself, swearing silently. The word 'martini' had brought back all his Jeremy Blaire memories. He had to be really careful to not trigger anything else. Miles fortunately accepted the offer of a coffee and Waylon entered the house to make his request. He began to boil the kettle and put some coffee granules into two mugs. He was always in need of coffee or he'd get dragged down by his permanent weariness.

As he waited for the boiling to stop, Waylon couldn't stop his mind from wandering. He remembered Miles, stood by the entrance of Mount Massive … with a strange entity about him, swirling and changing shape. It was this force that had pushed the car through the gate, allowing Waylon to freedom. It was this entity that had reduced Blaire to mincemeat. He wondered how Miles had control of the thing.

He carried out the fresh coffee and Miles gratefully accepted his mug. The man was always staring off at nothing, watching something that wasn't there. Waylon sat beside him on the porch bench, about a foot away to give Miles space. He sipped his coffee.

"What I saw back at the asylum …" he began. Miles interrupted.

"The swarm? You saw it. Tore that man, the guy who stabbed you, into pieces. Trying to stop their dirty secrets getting free."

Miles gave a harsh laugh. "Secrets I died for, I guess."

Waylon was stunned to silence. Miles wasn't dead, he was sat here in front of Waylon, drinking coffee and talking. He was solid, not a ghost. Wasn't he?

"I'm sorry … dead?" he asked blankly. Miles gave a sad smile.

"You see, Waylon, I was so close. So close to reaching the exit. It was in sight. Despite my condition, I made my towards it. This was after the Walrider fused with me."

Waylon had always heard hushed conversations about this Walrider. He was listening to Miles closely.

"Anyway," Miles continued quietly, "I reached the doors, which opened in front of me. Before me was Wernicke and a SWAT team. We stood facing each other for a few seconds before the first bullet hit. It was all in slow motion … but then the rest of the bullets hit me and I fell to the floor, dying from bullet wounds, mere steps away from my escape."

A wry smile twisted Miles' face as he shook his head before imitating an accented voice.

"Gott im Himmel. You have become the host."

Waylon stared. He knew enough German to know what that meant. The host of the Walrider though? He watched as Miles pulled the collar of his shirt open slightly. Waylon's sharp intake of breath was audible. Old bullet wounds peppered the man's chest. Miles rearranged his shirt collar and finished his coffee in silence. Waylon pondered what he had been told. He eventually spoke.

"So … you control the Walrider."

Miles nodded.

"And you're technically dead?"

Nod.

"And you're only here because your body is being sustained by the Walrider?"

Shrug.

Waylon took Miles' empty mug, leaving his own half-full mug on the floor by the bench, and went back into the house. He put the drained mug into the sink and exhaled slowly.

"I'm sorry," came a voice from behind him. Waylon turned but before he could answer, a mug hit him solidly in the temple and his legs gave way. The last thing he remembered was not hitting the floor; he felt arms catching his limp form. Then his vision faded to black.


	2. Chapter 2

When Waylon awoke, the first thing he noticed was the darkness. No, this wasn't consciousness. He was asleep, dreaming. No, no, please say it's not-

A rough hand grabbed at him from behind, catching onto his

-no, hadn't he been wearing a polo shirt and jeans when he'd been knocked out-

jumpsuit, dragging him out from beneath the table he was crouched under. He was met with the face of Eddie Gluskin. Waylon struggled to free himself but was firmly grasped under the man's arm. He was dragged to a familiar bloody room. The thick odor of blood coated Waylon's throat like metal and he choked.

The scene faded into another. Now he was on the table, limbs strung up, Gluskin talking to him softly. Waylon blanked out the speech, concentrating on finding a way to loosen the ropes capturing his extremities. It was fruitless, however, and he felt his heart rate accelerate as the groom moved around to the buzzsaw.

"Just close your eyes, and think of our children," he was saying softly. Waylon's breathing rose in volume and pitch as he was pulled closer.

Then he remembered. There was no Lisa to wake him up, nobody to help him escape the dream- he had no idea where it went after this, as he was always woken up.

"No, don't," he managed to sob before it hit. Ripping, shredding, slicing his body. He screamed, twisting, trying to get away. This was by far the most pain he'd felt in all of his nightmares. Screaming, screaming with agony, screaming for help, for anyone to help him, screaming until he could no longer make a sound.

Waylon was shuddering, tears rolling down his face, feeling himself bleed, helpless and unable to stop it. Gluskin had stopped the saw and was glaring at him.

"Darling, you've given up," he was accusing. "You've given up on love. I don't need you. You're worthless now."

Waylon felt the ropes around his arms and legs slashed free with a knife but couldn't even comprehend the idea of running now. The pain was causing his entire body to shake uncontrollably. He felt himself lifted and cried out from the fresh wave of agony. Gluskin didn't even seem to notice as he took Waylon through a maze of corridors, leaving a trail of blood. He was tossed onto the floor and tried to curl into a ball. A rope was wrapped around his neck and Waylon's thoughts momentarily cleared.

He would be too injured to struggle, to break the beams as he'd done a month ago. He'd be hanged successfully.

Feeling the rope beginning to lift, Waylon scrabbled for anything to hold onto. His fingers skimmed another rope but he didn't manage to grab on. He was dragged up so only his feet were on the floor. They, too, left the floor and he was pulled up until he reached the ceiling. He was choking, struggling for breath, the rope biting into his neck. He clawed at the rope but couldn't get a finger under it to make it less tight. It was crushing the breath from him. With the edges of his vision darkening, Waylon looked down. He could see Gluskin below, fixing the rope to the floor so that Waylon would stay until he was well and truly hanged.

"I hope this teaches you a lesson, you ungrateful slut." Gluskin spat, before leaving. Waylon tried to call for help but he couldn't draw enough air. He was dying, dying slowly-

Waylon burst back into life. He tried to sit up but felt something holding him down. His heart began to beat quicker. Had he woken from one nightmare and entered another?

He opened his eyes and saw that a heavy blanket was the thing holding him down. The room wasn't familiar; it wasn't his home. He called for someone but no-one came. He slumped back down, thoughts returning to the nightmare. Tears sprang at the corners of his eyes as the phantom of an imagined pain shot through him. So that was how it ended. After being cut, he was hung slowly, to suffer. He closed his eyes to try and find solace in the darkness but found the groom's smiling face burned into his retinas. He cried out, opening his eyes again, hating Murkoff, hating the groom, but most of all, hating himself.

Desperate, Waylon tried to think of something else. His mind went back to start of his suffering. Andrew. The man who had hit him, telling him to open his eyes. Then …

Waylon had told Lisa everything. Mostly. The punch, he had told Lisa about. He had skipped the next part. It was too personal. He had managed to tell her about Gluskin because nothing had actually happened. But Andrew … he had felt almost as helpless as he had with the groom.

The stinging pain of a hand hitting his face.

Then the feeling of a tongue on his face. Waylon had tried to writhe away, attempting to move away from the man. That wasn't the worst, however. No, the worst part was the sound the man made, the disgusting, shameless noise that Waylon couldn't forget.

He had closed his eyes again, but this time was seeing Andrew's face, far too close, far too smug. Waylon was sickened by the memory and forced himself to think of anything else, something that wasn't Andrew or the groom.

His thoughts were interrupted by footsteps. He made sure his eyes were open a crack so he could see.

"Are you awake?"

It was Miles. Waylon pretended to be asleep but Miles wasn't fooled. He moved over and took the blanket off.

"Get up. I did what I did because I had no choice."

Waylon reluctantly opened his eyes and sat up. He made very obvious his distaste for the man, making sure Miles caught his glare.

"Listen, I knocked you out because you're in danger," Miles said. Waylon snorted. It was such a cliché excuse, he was surprised the man had the audacity to try and use it. Miles shook him sharply.

"I'm serious! What remains of Murkoff are trying to track you down. They've sent people after you, people who want to harm you and your family. I'm betting that they'll catch you, torture your family's whereabouts from you, then capture your family and use them against you. Trust me, it won't be pretty. Murkoff don't care if they get their hands dirty now that you've dragged their name through the mud."

The dark tone of Miles' voice was worrying. Waylon knew he wasn't lying.

"Where am I?" Waylon demanded. Miles ran a hand through his hair.

"My apartment. It's temporary. I bought it a week ago. Anything else you want to know?" Miles snapped. He rubbed his eyes, looking tired. "You want anything to drink? I've got coffee. Unless you're hungry, in which case I'll have to go buy you something. In my current state, I don't need much. My human needs are nothing to me now."

"Um, I'm kind of hungry," Waylon mumbled. In truth, the hollow emptiness he felt inside was fear, not hunger, but he wanted any excuse to get Miles away. He wanted to be alone for now, to digest the information he had been given.

Miles nodded and left the room. As soon as Waylon heard his car start and drive away, he leapt from the bed, wide awake. He began to search. Some clothes, not many. He found a shirt with lots of tiny tears … bullet holes. There wasn't much else. The small kitchen was nondescript. Waylon found a coffee machine and discovered the refrigerator was mostly empty, apart from a few bottles of wine at the back. One was half empty. Waylon frowned. As tempted as he was to drink away his sorrows, he had vowed to Lisa that he wouldn't get drunk.

Then he came to a door. Waylon tested the handle. It was stiff but opened after a solid shove. Coughing from the dust, Waylon waved his hand in front of his face. He was stood on the first step of a flight of stairs that went down into darkness. For the first time, he wished he still had his camera. But it was at his home, stuffed away in his wardrobe.

He began to descend the stairs. His eyes refused to adjust to the inky darkness. He automatically shielded his face with a hand, feeling cobwebs brushing his palm. He felt his feet reach solid floor and trod forwards carefully. He walked into a wall and was noticed a source of light come on.

Squinting, Waylon saw that he had reached the end of the basement and walked into a light switch. The basement was still dark, so where was the light for? He gingerly approached it and found that it was coming from under a hidden door, cleverly camouflaged against the wall. He pushed it and it opened with a creak.

The room was mainly empty. The painted walls were a peeling grayish-white, adorned with nothing. A large mirror was leaning on the furthest wall. It was covered in cracks, some shards broken off onto the floor.

Waylon leaned towards it and scrutinised it closely. Nothing special. He turned around and Miles was stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

"I knew you'd snoop," he said softly. Waylon swallowed. There was something about the man's demeanour that reminded him of Blaire: cold, calculated, ruthless.

"Wait a minute-" he began. An invisible person slammed him against the wall. Miles hadn't even moved a muscle but he was somehow holding Waylon back. The whites of his eyes were a smouldering black. Pacing towards the trapped man, Miles's brow furrowed slightly. He eased a kink from his neck.

"Miles, I wasn't snooping, I was just curious-" Waylon gasped. His words were choked off by Miles' own hand rather than the entity's. With one arm forwards and the other by his side, Miles remained silent, regarding Waylon.

"Don't do it again," he growled before letting go. The force against Waylon lifted and he collapsed to the floor, inhaling sharply. He rubbed his throat, coughing. Miles, his eyes back to normal, accepted Waylon's hurried apology with a slightly raised eyebrow and a barely discernible nod. Waylon got to his feet and allowed Miles to take him up to the kitchen. They sat in chairs by the counter. Waylon absently looked at the apple Miles had provided him with.

"You're not really hungry, are you?" Miles said, guessing instantly. Waylon paused before shaking his head. Sighing, Miles took it and tossed in the trash untouched before getting out the half empty bottle. He unscrewed the cap and took a draught.

Wiping his mouth and the rim of the bottle, Miles offered it to Waylon. He hesitated. He had promised Lisa, after all, and he had never broken a promise to her …

Waylon found his hand grasping the bottleneck and felt the glass against his lips. The wine was cold and burned his throat; it dulled the pain and the hurt that he carried within himself. He lowered the bottle and handed it back to Miles. They sat in a companionable quiet, taking turns to drink from the bottle. Neither bothered to wipe the bottle mouth after a few swigs each.

The bottle was soon empty. Miles, rather than putting it down, threw it at the wall. It shattered with a resounding smash and they both watched the pieces fall to the floor. Miles slouched back in his seat. His eyes were glazed slightly. Waylon was feeling a warm fuzzy feeling in his head which he welcomed gladly.

"My wife … I promised her I'd not drink," Waylon muttered, his words slurred slightly.

"She isn't here so you don't have to listen to her. Where did you send her?" Miles replied hazily. Waylon told him and Miles nodded loosely.

"Good choice. They'll be safe there, Murkoff will never guess that's where they went."

Miles excused himself. Waylon sat leaning against the counter, eyes closed, enjoying the time away from the pain. The next second, a bag was over his head, blocking out his vision and restricting his breathing. Despite his struggling, the alcohol slowed his reaction time, and it was difficult to move quickly in such a drunken state; Waylon felt a needle sink into the back of his neck and he slipped away from consciousness.


	3. Chapter 3

When Waylon awoke, he was in a small cell. The bed he was lying on was solid and uncomfortable. Sitting up, his head throbbed. He saw a familiar symbol on the door.

Murkoff. His eyes narrowed. Before he could look around, Waylon heard loud crashing outside the door. There was a second of silence before he heard men screaming and loud banging as something heavy was thrown against a wall. A minute later, there was a sickening crunch and the screams stopped. Blood seeped under the door, which began to buckle as something hit it with considerable force. Waylon flinched and covered his head as it crashed open.

Miles stepped in. He was spattered head to toe in blood and the scleras of his eyes were black, unearthly so. His face was unnervingly neutral. Despite all the blood and the crashing, his hair was barely tousled, his clothes bloodied but unruffled.

"What the hell happened out there?" Waylon demanded. Miles didn't reply; he just remained staring, silent.

"Miles, what did you do?" Waylon hissed. Quick footsteps approached them and a man with a gun rounded the corner. He stopped as he saw Miles' back, raising the gun to his shoulder.

"Put your hands in the air or I shoot!" he yelled. Miles stayed where he was but his eyes flicked away from Waylon. The soldier repeated the command. When Miles didn't comply, he moved closer.

"I'm talking to you," he snapped. He didn't get another word out. An invisible form, which Waylon now knew to be the Walrider, had grabbed onto him, dragging him across the floor. His hands left the gun behind as he was lifted legs first into the air, arms scrabbling at nothing. He was crying for help.

Waylon could do nothing but watch. Miles had turned and was watching the soldier with some interest, head cocked. A thin smile spread slowly across his face. The soldier screamed, long and loud, but he was quickly dispatched, his remains splattering to the floor in an explosion of blood and entrails.

"Jesus Christ," Waylon breathed. Miles looked back at him, his eyes almost radiating darkness. He blinked a few times and they faded back to white. Normal again. Almost.

"We need to go," he said quickly. Waylon refused to move. Instead, he repeated his earlier question, louder. Miles narrowed his eyes. Without replying, he grabbed onto Waylon's hand, and pulled him out of the cell. They were running through white corridors, white light bleaching everything. It looked like a hospital and was the opposite of Mount Massive.

"This is Murkoff's research headquarters," Miles told Waylon breathlessly as they ran. "They did most experiments at the asylum, but they did other things here."

"Why am I here?" Waylon gasped.

"They were going to get information out of you. Since you destroyed them, they've wanted revenge. They'd get your family's location and use it against you."

Miles barged through a door and they stopped instantly. Two men in white lab coats turned around, staring. Miles swore and dragged Waylon in the opposite direction. The white lights turned red and began to flash; a blaring alarm turned on, blasting from speakers in the walls. The white walls looked red in the light. Waylon glanced at Miles, both of them illuminated in a deep bloody color.

"What are you doing?" he shouted over the alarm.

"I can't remember where the way out is!" the reporter yelled in reply. Waylon stared, his initial shock turning into fury.

"Are you serious?"

Miles kicked open a door. His hand, clasped in Waylon's, went cold. Ahead of them, the air shimmered, like there was something that Waylon's naked eye couldn't see in front of them.

"Freeze!" a soldier in front of them commanded. He was thrown into the air and hit a wall with a crunch, sliding down and leaving a red smear. Miles didn't even slow down, dragging Waylon past the body without even looking.

"Miles," Waylon said. No reply. Waylon tugged at his hand. "Miles. Miles!"

"Not now," Miles snapped.

"You killed those men!" Waylon cried. Miles stopped and looked at him. His once calm face looked tight and panicked, and there were lines Waylon hadn't seen before. Miles looked tired, not from running, but of life. Waylon felt his heart go cold at the thought.

"It's either them or us, Waylon. I don't want to get shot again. I don't want that memory to come back."

Waylon bit his tongue to stop himself from speaking. Miles resumed moving, pulling Waylon along. They reached an emergency exit and it crashed open before they were within three meters of it. Waylon knew Miles was using the Walrider again, as his hand felt like ice, his eyes black and cold. They went outside and Waylon was surprised to see that it was night. Red light spilled out of the open doors, casting an eerie glow into the darkness. The alarms were still loud and Waylon knew they didn't have long until they were found.

"What now?" he cried. Miles looked back at the doors.

"We run," he said shortly, closing the doors and beckoning to Waylon. Waylon grabbed onto his hand again and yelped as his arm was wrenched hard. He was stumbling alongside Miles, away from the light. It was startlingly dark and cold, and Waylon noticed the crunch of snow underfoot.

"Where are we?" he asked, trying to see. It was too dark and his eyes hadn't yet adjusted. Miles didn't reply. They were now far from the red lights but Waylon knew Murkoff weren't far behind. Miles didn't slow, keeping up the same desperate pace. He was limping slightly. Waylon felt his legs beginning to shake from fatigue, shock and cold. He tried to slow down but Miles kept running.

"M-Miles," Waylon stammered, his breaths coming out in white puffs that coiled into the air. Like Miles' cigarette smoke. A distant memory, now, a haze under the fear.

"We're almost there, hurry," Miles said shortly. After another few minutes, they reached a familiar car. A rusty red 1987 Jeep Wrangler YJ. Waylon stared at Miles.

"You found it?" he asked. He had never returned it after escaping the asylum. He had left it shut away in his garage, locked so his kids couldn't find it and wonder whose it was.

"Yes," Miles said. A rare smile twisted his face. "You kept it in a pretty damn good state, too."

He fell quiet as he trailed a hand across the hood of the car before getting behind the steering wheel. He motioned with his head towards the passenger seat.

"Come on. We're busting out."

**[[A/N: Thank you for being patient! I hope you enjoyed this newest TRatSE installation. I don't know when Ch. 4 will be out, it could take a week and it could take over a month. As always, tell me if there're any mistakes or things I can improve on. Thanks for reading!]]**


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